


Once A Snake

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Always A Snake, Aziraphale loves Crowley, Cloaca, Confessions, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Snake Anatomy, Snake Crowley, Xeno, snake sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Crowley was always told by Hell that he couldn't fit inside a human body, there was nothing to be done about it. But he's still been in love with Aziraphale for six thousand years. After discovering that his feelings are unexpectedly returned, an angel and demon decide to just go for it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 163
Kudos: 1030
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Crowley's Demonic Side, Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Snakey Bits!Crowley, The Snake Pit





	Once A Snake

Crowley's wine is in a significantly larger glass than Aziraphale's. He's had six thousand years to learn how to do many impossible things, and drinking wine out a normal glass is a skill that he's - if not perfected - certainly become capable of. But Aziraphale's small allowances for Crowley's inability to wear a human corporation are endearing enough that he doesn't protest.

Most of his body is currently draped across the sofa, where Aziraphale had moved to join him, after insisting that Crowley absolutely had to read something. Which turns out to be an overly obscene dedication, on the first page of a small book that the angel had recently acquired. Crowley had slithered himself across Aziraphale's thighs, to better accomplish the reading, and the angel had promptly curled an arm round a wide loop of his body, subtly indicating that he didn't object to Crowley remaining half in his lap for the foreseeable future.

"How did he get away with that?" Crowley asks, tongue flicking out in quick, amused lashes, just above the offending page. He can taste the angel in the air, with the scent of books and wine, and the lingering takeout they'd had earlier. Aziraphale had slowly fed him half the pork dumplings, and then watched him swallow them, in a way that Crowley was, even after all this time, still loath to confess was more than a little erotic. "The publisher must have said something. You can't just put the word 'quim' in a dedication, surely? Not in the nineteenth century. The word didn't fall out of usage 'til, what, the early twentieth at least?"

Aziraphale nods. "There was some discussion that it wasn't clear at the time, due to Manning's atrocious handwriting," he reasons.

"Nah," Crowley decides, after turning his head to better follow the looping pen strokes. "Even I can read that, and you know my eyes are absolute shit with handwritten stuff in general."

Aziraphale makes a sound of agreement, before carefully shutting the book and setting it down on the table. His other hand, seemingly at a loss without its wine glass, is now sliding on the long line of Crowley's spine, warming his scales in a way that's more than pleasant, that feels almost like it's pushing into indulgence. Though for which of them Crowley isn't entirely sure.

"You should sober up, angel, you're getting handsy," Crowley tells him reluctantly. He forces an air of amusement into his voice and his fluttering tongue movements. Because he knows how embarrassed the angel gets when he catches himself unexpectedly petting him.

Aziraphale gives a short hum of acknowledgement and his hand stills, though it doesn't move away, seemingly content to seep warmth into Crowley's scales.

"I suppose it is getting late," he agrees.

Crowley still has to miracle himself back to his flat, since travel through and across London is difficult when you're a snake (anywhere from four to forty feet long, depending on his needs, since size is more of a suggestion for him than something he's forced to stick to.) It's quicker, easier and actually takes less effort than trying to navigate public transport, or accepting a lift home, since Aziraphale drives - when he absolutely has to - like there are still horses in the road, all firm insistence on following every single traffic law, and an air of quietly tense concentration. 

Crowley keeps his own place mostly bare, not a single book to be seen, though there is a giant vivarium that's just for show. Well, mostly for show, Crowley's willing to secretly admit that he is a fan of the large sand area, he tends to spend a lot of time there, dragging his belly repeatedly through that deliciously soft and yet oddly abrasive texture. And the rough sandstone rocks and great chunks of tree bark are fucking blissful to rub against when he's shedding. Though he makes sure that he's never doing either of those things when the angel pops round.

"Or you could stay here, if you like," Aziraphale says quietly, a tentative sort of uncertainty to the offer. He seems compelled to hurry on, before Crowley can interrupt him. "It is rather cold at the moment. You know how I worry about you in the Winter."

Crowley twists fluidly, so he can tilt his head and look Aziraphale in the face. 

"Comfy as your sofa is, it's not all that warm, and you know my long and frustrating history with blankets." He has underfloor heating at the flat, every surface he rests on is warm against his scales. Though he's honest enough to admit that it isn't quite as pleasing as having the angel's company.

"I didn't mean the sofa." Aziraphale's fingers lift off his body entirely, only to curl around his other hand, where it's tucked close to his stomach. He fiddles with the gold circle around his smallest finger. "The bed is more than big enough for two," he finishes hurriedly.

Crowley goes very still, loops held taut against Aziraphale's thighs, because the angel has never suggested anything like that, not once in their long, six thousand year friendship. That's the sort of invitation that means something, or at least it would normally mean something if he was person-shaped, and not a long, coiling mass of snake. A demon in serpent form doesn't get invitations to share someone's bed. 

The angel can't possibly mean it like that.

Not that the thought of being in the angel's bed isn't an appealing one. The thought of sliding over and under his sleep-soft body, feeling the way Aziraphale would squirm under his coils. If anything it's a well-trod fantasy of Crowley's, the angel inviting him into his bed, encouraging him to wind himself over and through and around his soft, naked limbs. The bulk of Crowley's body sliding eagerly between those inviting thighs, smooth belly scales against the angel's stiff cock and heavy balls - and if Crowley curved just right, if Aziraphale's thighs spread generously enough he could slide a hemipenis into the angel's warm, tight arsehole, or his sweet, wet cunt, and maybe after he'd come, Aziraphale would let him replace it straight away with the other, to leave him sloppy and wet with Crowley's pleasure -

But it's a fantasy, and nothing else. It's never going to happen. For all their affection for each other, and their long friendship, the angel will never see him like that. Their corporations are too different. The angel would probably be horrified by even the suggestion of it. Crowley knows better, knows that he should play it off, make a joke of it. 

"You're not afraid you'll get caught with a demon in your bed?" He asks, giving short, rapid tongue flicks to show Aziraphale he's teasing.

Aziraphale exhales an amused breath of laughter. 

"Judging by the memos I've received of late I suspect they believe me far too incompetent to have done it on purpose."

"Ouch," Crowley offers, and gives Aziraphale's wrist a few tickling lashes of sympathy with his tongue.

"Really, Crowley, it is very cold and I simply hate the thought of you having to use miracles after so much wine."

Taking himself home is nothing Crowley hasn't done hundreds of times before, thousands even. When he hasn't used a quick illusion to make people think he's a person on a bus, or a train, which is usually more trouble than it's worth. Aziraphale knows that much. Aziraphale knows he could be sober in a few seconds if it meant that much to him.

"Aziraphale -"

"I would like it if you did." Aziraphale's voice is soft, as if he's making a confession, or sharing a secret, but it's clearly something that the angel wants.

Which is new and unexpected, because Aziraphale rarely asks him for anything, and the fact that he's asking now leaves Crowley incapable of protesting any more. He slithers off Aziraphale's lap, and then curls his tail to indicate that he'll follow where Aziraphale leads. Which turns out to be to the staircase in the back, up to the floor above. He lets the wine drain out of his system, and follows Aziraphale up the stairs, using the wall to ease himself more quickly from step to step. The large scales on his belly dragging at the soft carpet there.

He's never been in Aziraphale's bedroom. Though he's imagined it, imagined it as a room he rarely uses, old-fashioned but comfortable, done in cream and beige and blue, every surface covered in books, dusty and forgotten. But he finds it surprisingly warm and inviting instead, in shades of red and brown like the spines of old books, a pile of the same on the table next to the bed, telling Crowley that, much as he'd often imagined, Aziraphale does read up here, and perhaps even sleeps. The angel has already miracled himself into a set of tartan pyjamas, which Crowley gives a pointed, amused hiss towards, before slithering up onto the bed to join him.

Aziraphale is fussing with the pillows, impatient, distracted plumps and squashes. He removes one from Crowley's side, when he realises it will be too high to be comfortable.

"Do make yourself comfortable, I don't tend to move much," he says.

Which is the worrying part, because Crowley has been known to slither about in his sleep, to squeeze the feathers out of more than a few pillows, to even break a bedpost or two, with an enthusiastic curl of his heavy body. But he says nothing, and when Aziraphale draws the blankets back he winds himself into a looping pile of coils, in a warm space a few inches from the angel's hand, resting just below the pillows. Aziraphale carefully draws the blankets up, leaving Crowley's head tucked just above the fold. Crowley will no doubt get tangled in, or through the things, at some point. Though he can't currently bring himself to care. He's in Aziraphale's bed, and he will accept whatever the angel offers gladly. Perhaps if he behaves he'll even be invited back, allowed to curl in this intimate space again, to share warmth with the angel. Perhaps it will even be enough.

His flickering tongue can taste Aziraphale, the sleepy, wine-tart, softness of him. The underlying notes of him have slowly been changing, the taste in the back of his mouth slowly sharpening in the last few years. Hints of bitter almonds and strange fruits, like the smell of longing, and desire, mixed with the marshy brackishness of regret.

Crowley tucks his head down in that warm space, snout pushed into his own body, and sleeps.

He wakes a few hours later, a spill of coils and muscle over the angel's warmth, which he'd obviously sought out while dozing. He curses his sleeping self for the traitorous idiot it is. But he can't bring himself to move, he can feel the angel breathing, can feel the softness of his flesh over flexing muscle, the way heat seeps from his skin into Crowley's long, sinuous body, and it's utterly blissful. Aziraphale's fingers are sleepily drifting across the scales on his head and neck, in little darts of sensation. It's indulgent and strangely intimate, and Crowley can't help the way he presses up into it, the slow writhe clearly marking him as completely awake.

"We are the both of us immortal and unfathomable to mortals." Aziraphale breathes the words into the quiet room with a low sigh, as if he'd been wanting to speak for a while. "Wearing forms constructed for us that are only approximations of what we really are. I don't think we can be judged by the same rules."

Crowley gives a quiet hiss, because he's so afraid to misunderstand, to get this wrong.

"Aziraphale?"

"I am more than fond of you, my beautiful serpent, and have been for what feels like forever. Tell me you don't feel the same, Crowley?"

Crowley doesn't remember how to project words into his hisses for a long, agonising moment. Not after hearing the things he's always wanted the angel to say, but never thought he would ever actually be given. But he can't leave the angel with silence, not for this, it's too important.

"Always," he admits, finding it so much easier than he'd always thought it would be. "Since the wall, since I curled up beside you, and you sheltered me from the rain."

Aziraphale tugs, gently but insistently, at his long, undulating body, and Crowley has no choice but to uncoil, to stretch out along Aziraphale's own body in three long loops. He lets his lower half rest in a curl of weight between the angel's legs, where he's warm and soft. Aziraphale's hands are moving on him in long, slow sweeps, no longer petting but _stroking_ , a tentative and entirely new sort of touch. But Crowley's still braced, flexing scales holding his head and neck aloft, resisting the urge to press and push into the angel, even if he desperately wants to.

For the first time, Aziraphale looks uncertain, hands stilling on him. "I would understand, of course, if you don't want to. If my form isn't arousing to you."

"You'd ask me that?" Crowley hisses, rearing a little without meaning to, scales tugging the neckline of the angel's pyjama's indecently low. "I've spent years thinking of nothing but you, angel. You're the one with the soft, beautiful body, and I'm that one that's a demon - that's a bloody serpent."

Aziraphale's expression softens, fingertips lifting to settle against and then trail down Crowley's spine, a flutter of apology for doubting him, for not realising how much they both wanted.

"Oh, you beautiful thing, I've spent more than a few nights wondering what it would feel like to wake with you curled about me. To touch you like this, to hold you against me. I've wondered if I could ever give you pleasure."

Crowley sags in shock, one of his smaller, lower coils spilling open helplessly.

"Aziraphale you can't say things like that." It's a lie because he wants the angel to say it again, to let him hear it again.

"Who's going to judge us, my love?" Aziraphale frowns down at him, thumb drifting on the underside of his jaw.

Snakes can't choke, but Crowley's tongue folds and squirms in his mouth for a long moment, at Aziraphale calling him that, when Crowley had accepted that he never would, that he'd never see him like that, as a lover, as someone to fall in love with.

"No one," Aziraphale tells him. When it becomes clear that Crowley can't speak. The angel's pyjamas are gone abruptly, and Crowley's suddenly curled and folded and looped over unending warmth. He gives a shocked, helpless writhe, just to feel it all, and the taste of the angel in the back of his throat is overwhelming.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, desperately.

Aziraphale strokes warm hands down his length, fingers squeezing in soft clenches that feel desperately arousing, that make the scales at his cloaca itch and ache to spread and push open.

"Do you want to make love to me?" Aziraphale asks.

The words make Crowley's body want to twist and coil and slide himself across every inch of the angel's skin, a slippery rush of movement, that would hopefully end with them pressed vent to slippery opening. He finds himself rippling slowly from side to side, almost instinctively, as if to coax the angel into a similar movement.

"Yesss," Crowley says, incapable of anything but honesty. "I want that, I've wanted that." But he'd never thought Aziraphale wanted it too, never thought that he could possibly want Crowley like this. "Do you want me to, angel?"

Instead of answering, Aziraphale sighs a breath and opens his legs wider, lets Crowley's thick, shining coils spill between them, cradled in that squeezing, impossible warmth. The angel's boldness is so unexpected and so arousing that Crowley can already feel the swollen heat at the base of his tail, scales unlocking and shifting. Only to still when something occurs to him, because he's not the same as Aziraphale, he's different, he's so very different.

The words tangle in his head, he's uncertain how to explain, embarrassed to have to explain, afraid that it will end this before it's begun.

"Aziraphale, I don't have - I'm not built like you. My standard issue genitals are more snake than human. There are two of them, and they're set out a bit differently." He feels his lower body pulling up and in, a self-protective gesture, a need to brace himself for Aziraphale's confusion, for the possibility of rejection.

Aziraphale looks down at him, eyebrows lifting briefly in what looks like amusement.

"Ah, yes, I may have done a little reading on the subject," he admits, making a breathy noise at the resulting flex and squeeze of surprise. Though Crowley realises quickly that he shouldn't be surprised, Aziraphale insists on reading about everything. Why wouldn't the angel research everything about him the moment his feelings slid from affection to something more. 

But the thought of Aziraphale idly flicking through pages detailing snake reproduction, considering pictures of his genitalia and diagrams of snakes twisting together, pressing vent to vent - if Crowley were human he'd be flushed red, body hot with arousal. Did he think about Crowley while he read? Did he think about him and want that, did he picture them together? The slow, impatient shift of the angel's solid thighs against his coils suggests that he did.

"Filthy angel," Crowley accuses gently, tongue sliding against Aziraphale's throat and jaw, in amusement and scandalised relief. "Did it turn you on?"

Aziraphale sighs and tips his head to one side, for the fluttering tickle of Crowley's tongue. Crowley gifts it to him, soft trailing flicks against the stretched line of his neck, tasting the richness of him in that vulnerable space.

"Only when I thought of you," Aziraphale admits, with no shame at all. "Only when I wondered what you would desire of me."

Which is too much, Crowley is suddenly desperate for him, and he can't help the quick squirm of frustration. "What I would desire of you, angel, is everything." He gives a hiss of satisfaction at the angel's moaning exhale. "I don't have any fingers to prepare you, do you want to slick yourself with a miracle, or shall I do it?"

Aziraphale groans and spreads his legs in answer, and Crowley's whole body shifts in excited arousal, scales parting for the jutting swell of his hemipenes.

"You have no idea how many times I thought about this," he admits. He presses his snout under Aziraphale's jaw, while the middle of his body tightens where it's looped around the angel's thighs, slowly drawing his legs up and apart, while he squirms and slides impatiently into position. He lets a shivery demonic miracle touch the angel, intimate and possessive, leaving his hole wet and relaxed for him. It pulls a startled, breathy gasp from Aziraphale. "Ask me how many times I thought about you letting me do this, about you wanting it, asking me for it." One flexing drag brings his left hemipenis up against the angel's slick, stretched hole, a rub of delicious sensation, and after a few awkward, sliding jabs he manages to breach his anus and push inside, with a slow, rolling movement.

Aziraphale is so very warm inside, a tight squeeze around the strange, narrow shape of Crowley's cock, and the angel's mouth drops open, a moan breaking from his throat as Crowley slowly fills him. Crowley's long neck arches up so he can watch the angel's soft, pale body moving under him, thighs tensing and pulling open wider, until Crowley's own body weight sinks him inside deeper still, as far as he can go before his hemipenes split. The angel clenches on him, an exquisite pressure that leaves him hissing, tongue flicking out to capture as much taste from the angel as he can, and he's now smoky and tart with layers of need and desire. Crowley has done this to him, Crowley has made him a beautiful, wanton thing. 

"Crowley." Aziraphale's breathy voice is all warmth and encouragement, asking for more, for all of him, in every way.

Crowley rolls into him, in quick, rippling pushes that leave his hemipenis shifting in and out of the angel's tight, squeezing hole, in a way that's utterly new and exquisitely pleasurable. Aziraphale gives a long, groaning breath and spreads his legs wider, so the bulk of Crowley's body undulates and pushes against the angel's own flushed cock, leaving glistening lines of need on his glossy, red scales. The visible evidence of the angel's pleasure smeared on him is intoxicating.

He twists his head against Aziraphale upper body, tongue curling against his collarbones and chest, flicking curious and greedy over a pale, pink nipple. Until Aziraphale shivers and gives a quick, hard clench around his shifting hemipenis, thighs closing on Crowley's body, a delicious squeeze that leaves him dragging air and cramming into the angel tight and hard.

"Oh, Crowley, please." Aziraphale's head tips back, pale hair dishevelled and crushed to the pillows, throat a lovely curve that Crowley wants to lathe with his tongue and sink his fangs into.

It's difficult to get deep, his sex organ splits horizontally, and that makes it hard to coordinate full penetration. But it's worth it, it's absolutely worth the tangling, awkward twist of his body, for the way Aziraphale says his name, over and over, presses his shaky, beautiful mouth to the top of Crowley's head, to his hinged jaw, to the soft, sloping edge of his snout. Crowley tastes him there, tastes and tastes and twice his tongue slips between Aziraphale's lips to dart and curl inside, sweetness like an explosion inside his mouth, and he finds himself rubbing his snout mindlessly against the angel's face. So in love he can't remember how to make words.

He coils in heavy, solid loops, to try and cram himself impossibly deeper, feeling the heat low in his body, tight and eager and then suddenly spilling open and out, the jerky pulses of his come filling Aziraphale. The bulk of him twisted between the angel's legs now, spreading his beautiful, sturdy thighs wide as he claims the angel for his own.

Aziraphale gives a long sigh of pleasure, body arching, hands squeezing at Crowley's body, while his hips continue to work his cock against the slick scales on his underside.

"I'm not finished," Crowley tells him, slipping out the softening hemipenis, and then shifting over just far enough to slot the other one into the angel's slick, warm hole.

"Oh." Aziraphale moans at being stretched and filled again, reaches up with an arm and tangles his fingers through the headboard, for the new, eager rolls of Crowley's body.

"You are so beautiful, angel," Crowley's tells him, tongue flicking madly at his throat and jaw, while Aziraphale's fingers sweep down his neck, over and over. Press and grab at his scales in mindless pleasure.

Crowley adjusts his body, the widening width of him pressed down hard against the angel's stiff, red cock, pressing and rubbing with the largest scales he has, until Aziraphale's mouth drops open, and he's gasping, hips moving up into him, even as Crowley's weighty coils pin him down. It's delicious and unbearable and when the angel stiffens and gives a hoarse cry, spilling wetly against Crowley's belly scales. Crowley can't help but follow him shortly after, second hemipenis sinking in as deep as it can go. He hisses mindless ecstasy as it pulses come, in sweet, throbbing bursts.

They slip apart easily, then lay together, tangled around each other, both moving gently with twitching aftershocks of bliss.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs, and trails his fingers back along Crowley's snout, smiling in a way that looks like it hurts. "My lovely serpent, that was exquisite."

Crowley tangles them together tighter, scales warming against Aziraphale's body, snout pushed under the angel's jaw, tongue curling at his throat over and over. The angel can't seem to stop touching him, smiling while he strokes him with fingers and warm thighs, mouth brushing the top of his head. Crowley's whole body is loose with satisfaction, but he's more than willing to indulge in more, if the angel desires it. He coils and presses down, which pushes him further up Aziraphale's body, so the angel's fingers can slide and catch and hold him, the way Crowley's always wanted him to.

"Aziraphale." Crowley's tongue presses the name into his skin, and Aziraphale sighs, one hand drifting lower to slip between his coils and rub against the still faintly slick and half-open warmth of his vent.

"May I?" Aziraphale asks quietly, pale eyes curious and warm. "I mean, would it be alright if I touched you like that?"

Crowley's tongue flicks out again, helplessly, he can't stop it, can't do anything but taste the angel's arousal. Instead of answering that question, he drags up his tail, exposing the inside of his cloaca to the angel's carefully questing fingers. Aziraphale gives a soft sigh and slowly sinks one inside.

To have the angel fingering him should be shocking and scandalous, obscene even, but instead it feels so unbearably intimate, to have Aziraphale's fingers gently moving inside him, exploring him and finding what makes him hiss delight, what makes him squirm eagerly, nerves lit up and sparking - and he wants to give back, wants to give what the angel gave to him. He wants them to be joined in every way they can.

"Angel, do you want to -" Crowley doesn't know how to say it, doesn't know if Aziraphale would even want it, but his whole body is curving and rippling in pleasure. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Aziraphale gives a startled inhale and then goes very still. Crowley worries that he'd said something wrong, worries that's too much for him, something too perverse for Aziraphale to accept, or consider. But then the fingers start moving again, in slow, indulgent pushes that feel deeper than before. It's as if the slow exploration has become something that might be _preparation_ , and Crowley's cloaca throbs at the thought of it.

"Can I do that?" Aziraphale asks, clearly uncertain but so obviously interested. "I don't want to hurt you, Crowley, you're very tight."

The angel knows this now, knows in a way that leaves him exposed and so vulnerable.

"Yesss, fuck, I stretch more than you think." Please, please, Crowley thinks desperately. Because the suggestion that Aziraphale wants to - that he finds the idea arousing - has Crowley's whole body trying to coil and tighten, scales sliding on warm skin, and the angel's fingers almost slip free of him, before Aziraphale breathes a sigh and follows the movement, pushes them in deep again, three this time. It stings and he feels so open suddenly, it's perfect.

"Do you want that?" Aziraphale asks him, expression focused on Crowley's slowly weaving head. "Do you want me inside you? Is that something you would like?"

There are no words to that, all Crowley can do is hiss and instinctively press down, trying to curl his body into position for the angel to slide into. Aziraphale gives a breathless laugh of acceptance, rolls on the bed until they curve together.

"Can you twist your lower body a touch to the side?" Aziraphale's voice is gentle, but his fingers are smoothing a little more confidently on Crowley's large underscales, learning which parts are sensitive and which he can touch more roughly.

Crowley attempts to settle into an easier position, and he can feel the brush of Aziraphale's belly, and then his stiff, damp cock, inches from his open vent. So close, and it makes the idea of it suddenly real. He gives a rapid series of hisses, and presses down impatiently. The slickness of him painting Aziraphale's length and leaving the angel gasping.

"Do you, ah, want me to lubricate you a little more?"

That's probably a smart idea, Aziraphale's cock is thick and heavy, and it's probably going to be uncomfortable, will probably stretch the rim of his cloaca wide and tight. But part of him wants that stinging burn, wants to feel like Aziraphale is opening him and taking him. He wants to still feel it when it's over, he wants to feel all of it.

"Yesss." He makes himself say, because the angel would never forgive himself if he hurt him - would never do this again if he hurt him.

Aziraphale's fingers move up in a slow, careful press, and Crowley feels the sudden slippery warmth inside his cloaca, it's a surprisingly intimate miracle, that leaves his entire lower body throbbing. Before the angel is carefully positioning himself, hand wrapping around Crowley's tail to hold it up out of the way. The blunt head of his cock pressed to the slick wetness of his vent has Crowley's whole body going still in tense anticipation.

"Please let me know if it hurts, or if it's an awkward position for you," Aziraphale says, and then very slowly starts pushing into him. The angel's cock is large, and it stretches his cloaca in a long, tight burn, keeps stretching it as he eases inside. It is painful, but it's also delicious and new - in a way that has him squeezing around the length of it. There's so much of it, the heavy push of it filling him, making a space inside his body for Aziraphale to fit into. It leaves Crowley feeling open and vulnerable and so achingly desperate he doesn't have the words for it.

"Crowley," Aziraphale urges, voice all breath and arousal. "Tell me...please tell me if this is alright, oh."

"S'good, s'good," Crowley manages to reassure him, between overwhelmed hisses, his tail is twitching in Aziraphale's grip, and he's honestly not sure if it's trying to protectively close down over that aching stretch, or to arch higher, to encourage the angel to push him open, to sink deeper and fill him.

Aziraphale is still stroking him with the other hand, stroking his thick middle and his shifting head, before his fingers slide down to touch the tight rim of his cloaca, that must currently look obscenely open around his cock. It's sore and sensitive but the angel's fingers are so warm, so gentle. 

Crowley squeezes down, enjoying the ache, the way everything feels so new and so intimate. 

"Aziraphale, please."

Aziraphale gives a careful thrust, and Crowley's whole body, with nothing to brace itself against, tries to straighten out and shift up the bed, in an awkward slide of scales. The angel's cock nearly slips free of him, jabs in at a strange angle, and Crowley hisses in frustration and discomfort.

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, Crowley, should I?" Aziraphale's hands slide on him uncertainly, as if they don't know whether they should grab, or squeeze, whether to pin him down for the next thrust. Crowley finds the suggestion incredibly appealing. The thought of the angel holding him down and taking his pleasure from him, sends his tongue into a brief, flickering frenzy. He'd never imagined it, never dared to pretend Aziraphale would ever want something like this.

"Yesss, you have to hold me down, angel. I'm not exactly built for this."

Aziraphale's hands very carefully curve round him, press down in gentle pushes of slowly increasing pressure, until Crowley's bunched body is pinned to the bed with burning hands. The feeling of being grasped and held down by the angel is more intense than he has words for. His looping, stretched coils warming deliciously under the angel's weight as he slowly starts to move again, the whole, thick length of his cock drawing slowly free, and then pushing deep and tight into Crowley's long body. He can't slither away like this, he has no choice but to take it, and take it. He is Aziraphale's to use, to fuck at his leisure, and he finds himself hissing into the sheets, rapid and excited, the throb inside him sharp and desperate.

"Is this alright, Crowley, is this - Oh." The angel is so obviously enjoying it, enjoying him, the pushes of his hips shaky and eager.

"Yes," Crowley bites out, desperate for more of it. "Like that, angel. Please, just like that." He gives a broken, desperate hiss and lets Aziraphale fill him, over and over, while the angel pants above him, hips working awkwardly where they're tucked in tight against his lower scales. It's delicious, deep and invasive, intimate in a way Crowley has never experienced before. The angel's cock is a solid thrust of heat, stiff and unyielding, and he's squeezing helplessly down on it, making the stretched, sensitive rim of his cloaca ache sharply, and he wants it to never, ever end.

"Oh, my dear, you feel divine," Aziraphale breathes. Crowley gives a long hiss of pleasure, not sure he can form words. The lower half of his body curls around Aziraphale's tensing and relaxing thigh, squeezes it hard, in a way that he hopes is encouraging. It must be in some way, because all the breath punches out of Aziraphale, and the pace of his thrusts increases.

"Crowley." The angel sounds wrecked, voice shaking out of him. "Crowley, I'm going to come, do you want me to pull out?"

Crowley hisses refusal, the coils that are still holding the angel tangle together and tug him in tighter, every inch of muscle he has pulling at him eagerly. Because he wants to feel it, he wants Aziraphale to orgasm inside him, he wants to be filled with his come.

Crowley shudders, stretches out as much as he can and flattens himself to the bed, while his whole body quivers and tightens, pleasure rolling through him as his insides clench rhythmically, leaving him hot and dizzy. Until the angel finally presses in tight and hard, and then stills on a shaky moan of pleasure, cock throbbing as he comes in long, wet pulses, deep inside Crowley's body. Which is the most obscene and amazing thing Crowley has ever felt. The whole length of him ripples and twists in ecstasy, writhing under the grip of Aziraphale's hands, listening to his quiet, stunned noises of bliss. Until the angel loosens his hold with a gasping sigh, strokes all the way along him in gentle, soothing pulls, murmuring his name, and soft words of praise and love, that leave Crowley feeling light and strange.

Aziraphale's softening cock eases slowly free, and Crowley feels cored-out and empty, wetness trailing from his open hole. His tail twitches and levers down, but his cloaca stings in exquisite, hot little throbs, and he finds himself unwilling to draw it shut quite yet. He feels slick and sore, thoroughly well-used by his angel lover, and it's all shockingly new and exceptionally filthy, in a way that he wants to keep.

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asks, quiet and breathless, his hands slide gently along Crowley's length. "I didn't hurt you did I?"

Crowley's lower body curls and then settles against Aziraphale's soft, damp cock, desperate to keep them pressed together as much as possible, for as long as possible. His head pushes against Aziraphale's, rubbing gently back and forth in answer.

"I love you," Crowley tells him, unable to hold it inside any more. "I've loved you for ssso long."

Aziraphale lifts him, pulls him in, gathers him against his body, and Crowley presses his snout under the angel's chin, across his throat and cheek, butts it against his mouth, tasting every inch of him, while the angel murmurs words of acceptance and reassurance and love, and Crowley is lost. He is utterly lost.

There is no way on earth, Heaven, or Hell that he can give this up now.

*

Aziraphale sleeps so rarely that waking is almost always a strange experience. It always takes a moment to adapt as the world suddenly flows in again, vibrant and heavy, overwhelming on the senses.

He's in his own bed, rarely-used but always warm, always soft and giving underneath him. He remembers, remembers instantly that last night he had confessed his love to his beautiful serpent, and then they had _made love_. They had combined in as many ways as their different bodies could. Unwilling to be silent, unwilling not to touch each other a moment longer. Aziraphale finally allowed himself to love and to be loved in return. He smiles, warm and so very happy, and rolls over in the bed, hand reaching for the sleeping coils that belong to the love of his life.

Only to stiffen up completely, because the other side of the bed is not occupied by Crowley's heavy loops of glossy scale and muscle. No, instead there is a stranger sleeping in the sheets, narrow limbs folded awkwardly, spine a long curve of sharp vertebrae, too many joints and angles, a face of sharp features, and a tumble of rust-red hair. 

Aziraphale stares in shock - feeling suddenly unbearably naked and confused, but both emotions fade quickly into sudden anger, because Crowley is gone and in his place is - _oh_. That second of shock is long enough for him to take in the aura, the rolling demonic shadow of him. Which still feels like serpent coils, and sarcasm, and the rapid, hissing joy of their coupling. This man _is Crowley_. But his demon has never had a human corporation. He'd been told by Hell that he was the wrong fit for one, nothing to be done, that when God had cursed him to crawl on his belly She had meant it for all time. Only now Crowley is, without doubt, housed inside this obviously human form.

Aziraphale very slowly reaches out, lays his hand against the warm, bony curve of Crowley's shoulder. There's a shuffling twitch of movement, as if the demon had tried to uncoil himself, and then a frown. Aziraphale has never seen a single expression from Crowley, and that faint twist of features is shocking in its strangeness. Crowley opens his eyes, for the very first time - his beautifully familiar eyes - he sees Aziraphale and he smiles. 

Aziraphale's heart gives a jolting thump in his chest.

"Crowley?"

The smile falls away instantly, and Crowley's eyes abruptly cross. He can see his own nose, his own eyebrows, and Aziraphale watches Crowley's new body stiffen in shock, and then awkwardly unfold itself, limbs dragged after him slowly, as if he has only the barest idea how to control them.

Crowley's tongue slides out, and it's still undoubtedly a snake's, still thin and forked and lightning fast. Ah, a not entirely human corporation then. 

"Crowley, my love." Aziraphale is uncertain what his reaction will be to this.

"Aziraphale," he manages, and it's mangled and hoarse as he works his new mouth. There's a hard note of panic in his voice, threaded through with disbelief, and Aziraphale can hear all of it. " _Aziraphale_!"

Crowley pulls himself upright, wobbling and uncertain, trying to find his centre of gravity, balancing on an elbow that doesn't know how to hold him up. Aziraphale shuffles closer and steadies him with a hand. His skin is smooth and soft, unexpectedly warm. And Aziraphale knows, knows absolutely, that this is the demon he loves, but it's still jarring to touch his skin, to hold him upright, to look into his face. He can't imagine what it feels like for Crowley, to be thrust into a new body, after six thousand years. To be forced into a shape with limbs and strange senses, and a face that betrays everything he's feeling. He's so strange and so beautiful that Aziraphale cannot speak.

"Thisss isn't supposssed...not ssssupposed to be posssible, Aziraphale." Crowley tries to move forward and ends up falling. Aziraphale catches him, holds him up with an arm around his new waist, as Crowley makes confused, lost noises into his hair, new hands curling and twitching on Aziraphale's naked skin. 

Aziraphale holds him while he breathes, one hand lifting to drag through his hair, which is a fall of impossible curls. Crowley groans in his throat, and settles under his hold, manages enough control to lift his hands and lay them at his waist, fingers twitching and digging. Crowley always was a fast learner.

"Not how I expected to wake up," he says shakily. There's still so much shock and confusion, but now it's threaded through with something like wonder. 

"No," Aziraphale agrees, and he isn't sure whether it's appropriate to laugh, whether he should sound shocked, or happy for him, nothing could have prepared him for this. He has never held Crowley like this, never held a Crowley who is arms, and legs, and hair, warm breath in his throat and clawing fingers. Though he feels exactly the same in Aziraphale's embrace, all sliding warmth and gentle amusement, and love, so much love.

"Was going to coil around you," Crowley continues. "Wake you up, miracle you sssome of those fancy apricot tartlets you like, then try and ssseduce you again."

Aziraphale does breathe laughter then, he can't help it. He finds himself squeezing Crowley's long, slender waist, the bare almost-sharpness of his hips. Crowley attempts to squeeze him back, a strange clenching roll of his body which he makes a disgruntled sound after, as if his new limbs are giving him problems.

"I can ssstill feel my body," Crowley adds after a moment. "My real body that is, underneath, I think I can...change back. I think I can _change_. Bloody hell, this is impossible, this is fucking impossible." 

He's quiet for a moment, and then he's moving suddenly, wobbling backwards, long, shaky hands lifting to grasp at Aziraphale's face, and pulling him close. Crowley presses his new mouth down over Aziraphale's, a clumsy slide of lips that he makes a startled sound under. Crowley gives a low, soft rumble and sways into him, before easing back to press his mouth against Aziraphale's again and again. Until Aziraphale laughs and lifts a hand to hold them together, encourages the shaky, wet kiss to slowly open out. He shows Crowley how to move his mouth, how to let Aziraphale inside, and then coax him inside in turn, tongue sliding against Aziraphale's, where it curls and twists in curious pleasure.

Eventually they break apart, back in the pillows, one of Crowley's new arms squeezing and tightening at Aziraphale's waist. Crowley sighs, soft and satisfied, teeth small and sharp behind his sudden smile. 

"I've wanted to kiss you for six thousand years, angel," he says breathlessly. "Never thought I'd ever get to. Never thought I'd get to hold you, to touch you like this. Bit overwhelming to be honest." There are still shakes of confusion in his voice, and his fingernails are digging a little too hard into Aziraphale's skin. "Give me a minute."

They lay in the bed for a few long, quiet minutes, Crowley learning his new hands, the way they open and shut, the strange dexterity of his fingers, the feel of Aziraphale's skin. He spends a moment frowning and investigating his own hair, before giving an odd laugh, loud enough to startle himself. Then he pulls Aziraphale in again, threads their fingers together and squeezes. Aziraphale pushes Crowley's hair out of his face, and kisses him again, then teaches him how to balance on his elbow. Crowley lifts his other hand, pulling clumsy fingers through Aziraphale's hair, running them over his face, making soft, hissing noises of delight and amazement at the feel of him. Every so often he'll slide forward and press their mouths together, breath bursting out of him, as if he's overwhelmed by the new ability.

"Angel?" he says, between one kiss and the next. "Would you..." He stops, frowns, as if the thought is too big, too much to ask for. 

"Anything," Aziraphale tells him, and he means it.

Crowley smiles. "Teach me how to walk."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snusband snuggles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758735) by [idothiscrap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idothiscrap/pseuds/idothiscrap)
  * [[Podfic] Once A Snake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423256) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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